At least Andrew, our oldest, is back home. Politicians eager for my vote are decrying the statistic that more than 50% of recent college graduates are unemployed or underemployed and have moved back in with their parents. This is shocking for sure, but I am here to tell you we view Andrew's temporary residence in our basement as a great blessing. He is writing and recording his music, underemployed as a bartender and SAT tutor, saving his money and industriously preparing for a move to New York. He is also saving me from flat-out depression. I mean it. If it weren't for his cheerful presence in our home, I know I'd wander aimlessly from room to empty room, wondering what will become of me now that my Stay-At-Home-Mom gig has ended. His daily singing and practicing is a balm that soothes more than he can know. And his dedication to his passion is inspiring.
And so I gingerly pick up where I left off. I find my drawing pen and remind myself what I can do with it. I doodle and dream. And somewhere along in there I head up to Henry's room, pen and paper in hand, and visit his turtle, Franklin. Poor old Franklin, abandoned in this room that looks like the Grinch has just departed. Dresser drawers are empty and a bit askew, forgotten clothes hangers litter the floor, stray bits of tape mark the spots on the walls where favorite posters used to hang. There are no more piles of dirty athletic clothes and school books and golf balls and candy wrappes and a backpack spilling its contents on the floor. Uncharacteristically, the bed is made and the desk is tidy. The emptiness haunts me.
Yet in the act of drawing, I am refreshed. Most times I draw because I have something joyful to give, some beautiful thing inside that wants to be expressed. But sometimes I draw to heal. I am looking for that quiet place where bliss abides . What a gift it is to find peace. Another reason to be grateful for this journey! A wonderful adventure awaits if I keep pencil or paintbrush in hand and persevere. And so it goes . . .
